


Wants and Needs

by LordofLies



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Consensual Somnophilia, Fluff, M/M, Morning Sex, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Other, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 18:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9198431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordofLies/pseuds/LordofLies
Summary: Wing returns home late from a grueling training session with Dai Atlas, too tired to help Drift work off the day’s frustrations.  The next morning, Drift finds a creative, and pleasurable, way to wake the knight up.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ruenesca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruenesca/gifts).



> For Ruenesca, my Drift/Wing partner in crime. :) Prompt was Drift having an oral fixation with Wing's spike, and Wing eating Drift out.

It was late by the time Wing finally returned to the apartment.  Drift would deny that he had been waiting, but really, after a certain point there wasn’t much to do without Wing around. 

There was little within the four walls of Wing’s apartment that held his interest.  Wing might be content to spend his off-hours pleasure-reading or meditating, but Drift’s lines burned with a need for action, movement, progress.  He’d had his evening energon, practiced his stances (determined to at least get one hit in during the next light cycle), and watched from the balcony as the city darkened in its artificial bubble of reality. 

It seemed even more unreal at night, when the glass and metal glittered and shone with pinpricks of reflected light.  If he didn’t look up at the darkness of the cavern ceiling, he could even imagine that this was what it might have been like to live in a place like Iacon, or Vos.  Somewhere the slums that had been his only home were far below, so far that they might not even exist at all.

“Sorry I’m coming back so late,” Wing sighed, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.  His entire frame sagged with exhaustion.  “Took longer than I expected.  Were you waiting?” he asked, seeing that Drift was sitting on the couch with nothing to occupy himself.  Drift sneered.

“What?  You think I just pace around aimlessly, waiting by the door for you get back like some well-trained turbofox?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.”  Drift shrugged.  “I was thinking.  Lost track of time.”

“It’s well past the hour we usually retire.”

“They were deep thoughts.”

“Ah, of course.”  Wing cracked a smile, but groaned again when he took a step forward.  Drift whistled, making no move to assist him.

“Get your aft handed to you?”

“Quite thoroughly,” Wing sighed.  “Dai Atlas says that we must not allow ourselves to become complacent.  It’s routine that we each train regularly with others of equal or greater rank.  It’s not uncommon that I find myself paired off with Axe or Dai Atlas himself, but this time I felt there was… a particular tension that has not been present in the past.”

That got Drift’s attention, and he leaned forward with a scowl, elbows resting on his knees.

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“Well, it’s why I’m back so late,” Wing elaborated, moving across the room and towards his quarters.  “Usually he calls the match well before we’re both at our limit, but this time Dai Atlas wasn’t satisfied with my performance until he’d thoroughly pounded me into the floor.”

Drift bared his teeth.  “You’re using those words deliberately.”

“That is usually how language works, yes.”

“Don’t be a smartaft.  Was it really just a match, or did you let him frag you into the dirt where everyone could see, like some cheap piece of shareware?”

Wing’s bemused smile faded, and he swallowed, schooling his expression into something sterner.

“It was just a match, Drift.  I was goading you.  I apologize.”

Drift snorted, getting to his feet and crossing his arms in a way that said he’d figured as much.  A hot little coil of anger twisted in his tanks at the thought of Dai Atlas’s massive frame curved over Wing, the smaller mech writhing and moaning, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the packed earth as his valve was stretched by a massive black spike.  Arousal trickled down Drift’s spinal strut, mixing with the anger.  He strode towards Wing, still standing in the doorway to his berthroom.

“Wasn’t a very nice thing to say,” Drift chastised, propping one shoulder against the wall.  “Not very becoming of a knight.”

“You’re right,” Wing murmured, his exhaustion apparent in the dimness of his golden optics and the way he moved, like his frame was something heavy that he wasn’t used to carrying.  “I won’t make any excuses.”  Drift looked him up and down appraisingly.

“I’ll forgive you,” he said, pausing for effect, “…if you let me suck your spike.”

“Drift…” Wing sighed.  “I’m sorry.  I’m too tired, I just don’t have the energy tonight.  Come to berth with me?” he asked hopefully, stepping into the room.  Drift followed him, frowning again.

“It’ll be good, I promise,” Drift insisted, almost petulantly, as Wing detached his sword from his back and laid it across the hooks that held it to the wall.

“I doubt I could even overload at this point,” Wing admitted.  “I would probably pass out on you.”

“Wing.  Please.  Don’t make me beg.  I’ve been thinking about you all day.  I _was_ waiting,” Drift admitted, changing tactics.

“In the morning, Drift, I promise you,” Wing reassured as he laid down on the berth, “you can do whatever you want to me.  I just need a few nano-cycles of recharge first.”

Drift stood by the berth, struggling with himself.  He wanted Wing, and he wanted him _now_.  He’d been waiting, _wanting_ —running hot for the heavy feeling of Wing’s spike against his glossa and the sweet pulse of transfluid filled his mouth when Wing overloaded.  Wing’s transfluid was as sweet as the energon he consumed, the kind that Drift himself couldn’t bear to drink.  It was so refined and cloying it made him sick.  Filtered through Wing’s systems, however, it gave his transfluid a unique tang that Drift craved in a way that was equal parts hunger and lust.

But Wing had told him no.  Three times.

Drift _hated_ to be told no.  He was a creature of impulse, every action focused on a single goal, and he’d spent the last four million years tearing down anyone that got in his way.

But that had been Deadlock, and Drift was realizing that maybe he had been wrong.  He’d hurt so many people, and in many ways become like those who had oppressed and abused him when he had been young and powerless.  Wing made him see the error of his judgement, and the hypocrisy of his actions.  Wing made him look inward.  Wing made him want to be better than he was.  Not just in big ways, but in little ones.  Like this moment here.  This was a moment of choice—press forward, prioritizing his own desires over Wing’s choice in the matter—as Deadlock would—or swallow his yearnings and wait a little longer, as Wing would want of him.

After a moment of internal conflict, Drift let his shoulders droop, tension rolling out of his body as he circled around to the other side of the berth and laid down, pressing himself up against Wing.  The jet was already offline, to Drift’s faint bemusement.  Well, he’d just have to think of a way of getting even with Wing for taunting him and making him wait.  In the morning, of course.

~*~

Light trickled through the shutters of the berthroom window, painting little stripes of warmth across Drift’s plating.  He stirred awake, the room hazy as his optics warmed to life.  As the world came into focus, Wing filled his vision.  The flier was laid out beside him, still humming softly, deep in recharge.

Carefully, Drift began to stroke his fingers down the plating of Wing’s stomach.  The jet shivered, then went still again, unresponsive as Drift continued to caress his belly.  Growing impatient, he began to stroke lower and lower, until his fingertips tapped against Wing’s interface panel.  Wing made a soft sound, shifting slightly as Drift began to smooth his fingers against the white panel.  He could feel Wing’s plating heating up beneath his touch, even though the flier was still asleep.

“Open up, Wing,” Drift whispered.  It took a few more moments of soft, insistent touches before he heard a faint click, and Wing’s spike panel slowly retracted.  The spike behind it was still hidden in its housing, but Drift had a plan to change that. 

Moving carefully, so as not to disturb Wing, Drift slipped off the berth and walked around towards Wing’s pedes.  Conveniently, the flier moved to fill the space Drift had left behind by rolling onto his back, one arm flung out and fingertips dangling over the edge of the berth.  Drift snorted in amusement before carefully climbing back onto the foot of the berth and easing Wing’s legs apart.  He rubbed the inside of Wing’s calves with his hands, moving up to his thighs until he’d coaxed Wing into spreading his legs, allowing Drift access to his panels.

The heat from the night before, which had gone dormant while he recharged, began to squirm again in Drift’s belly.  He lowered his head down towards Wing’s panel, optics flicking up briefly to determine Wing was still asleep, before tentatively licking the exposed spike housing.

Wing shivered again, and Drift stroked the insides of his thighs soothingly.  He continued to tease the opening with dainty licks and soft kisses until slowly, the secondary cover spiraled away and the tip of Wing’s spike began to poke out.  A thrill of excitement went down Drift’s spine.  He wiggled his hips, pressing his thighs together as a little pulse of desire went through his own spike.  He could feel the first wet touch of lubricant inside his valve.

He mouthed at the exposed spike head eagerly, purring to himself as a faint whine escaped Wing’s vocalizer.  The spike was warm in his mouth, and Wing’s lubricant had faintly sweet tang that made Drift’s mouth begin to lubricate as well.  He drew the flat of his glossa across the head, leaving it shiny and wet, before he went back to tormenting it with little licks to the tip and around the base.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Wing’s spike began to extend.  Drift watched its progress eagerly, the hunger he felt at watching it equal parts lust and real physical hunger.  His tanks whined at him, reminding him that he still hadn’t taken his morning fuel.  No matter, what he had in mind for now was better.

It had been hard for him to articulate to Wing why he needed this, why it was so important to him.  Wing didn’t understand— _couldn’t_ understand—what Drift had been through, but the jet did feel his pain.  It was more than Drift had ever expected, and one of the reasons he couldn’t get Wing out of his head. 

It amazed and baffled him how much empathy Wing had for the suffering of others, and how much of it was genuine.  He understood, on an intellectual level, why Drift needed this, but he couldn’t know what it really _felt_ like.  The restless hunger wasn’t just a physical ache, but an emotional one as well.

Drift pressed his lips to the head of Wing’s spike, sucking gently until it slid into his mouth.  Out of sight, Wing moaned faintly, his thighs trembling.  Drift soothed them again with his hands, and swallowed Wing’s spike down to the base in one smooth motion.  He choked on a moan at the feeling of fullness in his throat, pressing down until his lips kissed Wing’s pelvic armor.

The scent of him surrounded Drift; warm metal, burning dust, the tang of lubricant, earth and oil—and yet he was still so _clean_.  Wing’s scent was fresh and cool, like a breath of wind inside the city.  This familiar scent combined with the sensation of having his mouth filled with that hot spike, feeling it twitch and throb inside his mouth, only added to the heady, tingling anticipation building in the tanks that knew they were about to be filled. 

Drift quivered, optics half-shuttered as a tremor of pleasure went through him.  He loved the feeling of Wing’s spike in his mouth.  Heavy, warm, the taste of Wing on every sensor of his glossa, the slick head pushed just into the tubing of his intake.  It filled some of the emptiness inside him, an emptiness that Drift had carried with him as far back as he could remember.

Wing’s spike twitched against Drift’s glossa as he drew back, dragging his wet lips along the sides until only the head was in this mouth, before sliding back down to the base again.  He went slowly, but fast enough to start to work Wing up, bobbing his head and occasionally swirling his glossa along the shaft or against the tip, sucking out the little drops of transfluid that beaded from the slit.

At some point, Wing’s valve cover had opened as well.  When Drift took his spike all the way to the base again, the smell of it, sharp and musky, filled his olfactory receptors.  His own spike knock against its cover in response, desperate to be sheathed in that slick heat. 

But that could wait. Right now, what Drift wanted most was the sweet slide of Wing’s transfluid in his intake.  His fuel tank rumbled and his mouth watered, drool running down his chin as his lips stretched around Wing’s girth.

Wing made such vulnerable sounds when he had Drift’s mouth around him, and Drift felt vulnerable too, his throat bared and the metal platelets of Wing’s spike pressing at the thin, internal lining of his mouth and fuel intake line.  This had always been a two-way thing, one of the only kinds of mutual give and take that Drift had known before the war.  It was a way to forge stronger bonds with each other, and to take the edge of the hunger that always gnawed at him. 

While other mechs might find this act degrading, Drift found it comforting.  He remembered long ago, when his whole world had been the gutters of the Dead End, and both fuel and friends had been scarce.  Gasket had saved him, given him something to hold onto, someone to soothe him in the dark nights when the gnawing hunger in his tank kept him from recharging and the cold and the damn seeped under his plating and chilled the fuel in his lines.

He remembered nights when there had been no energon, when his body screamed at him, when he didn’t even register the warnings that flashed across his display because they had become such a constant.  It wasn’t really news to him anymore that he was starving.  His systems were always a cycle away from shutting down on him.  But at least they could take comfort in this—a warm frame to cling to, the tactile pleasure of an overload, and the temporary satisfaction of having a full tank, although transfluid was no substitute for real energon and it wouldn’t fool his systems for long.  He’d spent many nights wrapped up with Gasket or one of the other members of their little gang, rubbing at his full belly and trying to pretend he didn’t know that in the morning the pain would be back again, hardly softened at all. 

Drift hadn’t been a starving addict in a long time, but the taste of transfluid on his tongue, the heavy feeling of a spike in his mouth, and the hot rush of his tank being filled still brought the same rush of pleasure and feeling of relief.

Wing moaned softly, hips twitching as Drift constricted his throat around the head of the spike.  The smell of arousal had gotten stronger, and Drift could tell Wing was close.  A little flutter of excitement beat against the inside of his chest.  He smoothed his hands down the inside of Wing’s thighs, massaging at the joints of his pelvis and working long fingers in to pluck and stroke at the wires.

“Drift,” Wing murmured softly, his voice crackling with static as he slowly pulled himself out of recharge. “Drift, oh, please,” he begged, spike throbbing.  He moved a heavy hand to rest against Drift’s helm, rocking his hips up into Drift’s mouth in shallow little thrusts.  Drift moaned around him, his intake yielding for Wing’s spike as the flier thrust into his mouth. 

“You’re so warm…” mumbled Wing, turning his head to the side to pant into the berth.  A hot gush of lubricant leaked from his swollen valve as Drift slid down the shaft again, bobbing his head in a way he knew would bring Wing closer to the edge.

Eager to finally get his reward, Drift’s hand moved to trace around the sticky edge of the knight’s valve.  Without warning, he plunged three fingers inside and swallowed hard around the spike.  Wing’s valve clenched weakly around his digits, and the flier cried out, bucking his hips as he overloaded. 

The rush of transfluid in his mouth was everything Drift had desired, and he swallowed it down eagerly, moaning and sucking at Wing’s spike like he was starving, savoring every drop.  It was over too soon, but once his tank was full, Drift purred with satisfaction.  He kept his mouth where it was, cleaning Wing’s spike thoroughly with his glossa while the flier mewled and trembled, still too lethargic with the trappings of sleep to do much of anything.

Drift let the spike slide out of his mouth with a wet pop, satisfied that he’d cleaned every trace of transfluid off it.  It was already depressurizing, glistening with Drift’s oral lubricant, but underneath it Wing’s valve was still trickling lubricant.  Drift’s panel snapped back and his own spike pressurized, finally demanding his attention. 

A shiver of pleasure traveled down Drift’s spinal strut at the heavy, warm feeling in his tank.  The sweet of flavor of Wing’s transfluid had only made him more aroused, and he lifted himself up on his arms and slid up along Wing’s lax frame, trailing licks and kisses as he went until he reached Wing’s neck.  He took a moment to appreciate the soft glow of Wing’s optics and the blissful expression on his face, his mouth slightly parted, begging to be kissed.

Eager to be inside the flier, Drift ground his spike against Wing’s open array, slicking himself in Wing’s lubricants as he searched for the opening.  He purred when the felt the tip of his spike catch at the rim of Wing’s valve, rubbing teasingly at the aroused ring of mesh as he licked and sucked at Wing’s throat.  The flier sobbed faintly under him, overwhelmed with sensation.

“Drift, oh, _please_!” Wing moaned, his valve biting weakly against the elusive tip of Drift’s spike, in just far enough to be felt, but not enough to be grasped by Wing’s hungry valve.

Drift didn’t need to be asked again.  He thrust deep into that slick heat, feeling how wet and loose Wing was, just from having his spike sucked.  Wing’s valve was heaven, and the slippery, silky feeling around his spike made Drift drool as he set a slow pace, grinding their hips together every time he was fully sheathed inside.  Wing moaned, legs spread as wide as he could get them while his hands fisted tightly at his sides.  His mouth was open and yielding when Drift kissed him, dipping his glossa inside to taste his lover.

Drift could feel himself cresting towards his own overload, but the soft glide of his spike in Wing’s valve was not quite enough…

“Wing,” Drift panted in the flier’s audial, “squeeze harder, I’m getting close…”  Wing groaned, doing his best to clench the calipers of his valve around Drift’s spike.  Drift shuddered at the increased fiction.  The faint ripples caught at the nodes along his shaft and brought him closer to the edge.

“Harder, Wing” Drift groaned, “I know you can do it, just a little tighter.  Primus, you feel so fragging good…”

“I…can’t…” Wing panted, struggling to exercise control over his own body, which was still not quite as awake and responsive as his mind.

“You can, just a little more,” Drift panted, resting his forehead on Wing’s shoulder turbine, thrusting in deep to hit the nodes at the top of Wing’s valve.

Sobbing faintly as a second overload approached, Wing moved a trembling hand to rub at his exterior node, slick and sensitive with their combined fluids.  The stimulation triggered involuntary ripples in Wing’s valve, and Drift cried out in overload as Wing’s valve squeezed him, soft and so very tight.  The hot gush of transfluid in Wing’s valve brought him to a second overload, and his hips jerked and twitched as Drift held them down, arching back, mouth open and eyes white with pleasure as Wing’s valve milked every drop of transfluid from him.

Wing slumped strutless against the berth as the last shockwaves of overload ebbed from his frame.  He was awake now, but his frame was still heavy with exhaustion.  He let out a little whine as Drift eased out of his overload-tightened valve, freeing himself with a wet pop and a trickle of transfluid.

Sighing contentedly, Drift flopped back down next to Wing, engine purring with satisfaction as he traced lazy fingers over the crest of Wing’s chest.

“Should…should we get up, then?” Wing asked after his spark had taken a few minutes to stop racing.

“No,” Drift told him, snuggling in closer to his lover.  “You had a long day yesterday.  You need your rest.”

“Do I now?” Wing asked, amused.  He could almost feel Drift smirking against the side of his throat.

“Yes.  No arguing, or I’ll have to sit on you.”

Wing turned to face Drift, tilting his head to mouth gently at one of the sensitive white finials.

“Well, I can’t say that idea doesn’t hold a certain appeal,” he murmured, stroking a finger suggestively over Drift’s valve panel.  He chuckled softly to himself as Drift’s vents hitched and the cables of his legs tightened.

“You certainly kept busy with that mouth of yours… it would be rude not to return the favor.”

“Y-yeah,” Drift stammered, pressing in closer to Wing.  “Very rude.  Very un-knight-like.”

“I bet you’re already wet, after all that, and I still haven’t had anything to eat this morning.” 

Drift moaned, pressing his array up against Wing’s hip, arousal already starting to build again.

“I swear to Primus, Wing,” Drift growled, “if your glossa isn’t in my valve in another klik I’m going to eat every single one of your energon candies.”

Wing laughed—a clear, ringing sound—as Drift rolled on top of him and straddled his hips.  The artificial dawn glittered off his white armor, and Wing reasoned that they had at least another half cycle before they really had to get out of the berth and start the day.  But there was a lot they could do in that time, and Wing was feeling very much awake now after two overloads.

“Come on,” Wing encouraged, stroking the outside of Drift’s thighs as the speedster scooted further up his body until his closed array was hovering over Wing’s chin.  He could feel the slight tremble of Drift’s frame as he opened his valve panel.  The inside of it was glistening with accumulated lubricants, which dripped down onto Wing’s face.  A drop landed at the corner of his mouth and his glossa snuck out to catch it.  Drift’s fluids were warm and slightly tangy, with a hint of magnesium from the mineral-rich energon he favored.

Carefully, Drift lowered himself down so that the lips of his valve brushed at Wing’s face, one hand braced against the wall at the head of the berth.  Wing opened his mouth and licked along the center of the valve, making Drift gasp and jerk away at the unexpected sensation.

“Can’t carry out your own threat?” Wing asked teasingly, his warm breath ghosting against the sensitive mesh.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Drift replied, his expression becoming less hesitant and more calculated.  “I never issue a threat I can’t follow through with.”  With that he lowered his full weight against the flier, shivering at the contact to his valve. He surrendered to the urge to rock and rut against Wing’s face as if it were just a tool to pleasure himself with.

Wing’s reply was too muffled to catch, but the vibrations it sent through Drift’s array sent little jolts of pleasure through him.  He ground down more, smearing lubricants around as Wing finally began to lick and suck in earnest, swallowing the excess fluids that pooled in his mouth as Drift’s arousal grew.

Drift shuddered and gasped at the strange, twisting sensation of a glossa in his valve, so different from a spike.  Soft and light in its touch, and somehow so much more intimate.  It was like a long kiss, and he could feel Wing exploring his valve in ways that a spike, and even fingers, never could.  He moaned and rocked against the flier’s face, leaving sticky marks every time he rocked a little further than before—his own kiss back.  Wing didn’t seem to mind, if the low noises of pleasure he was making were any indication.

“Frag, Wing,” Drift whined, rocking back and forth at a steady pace now, chasing further stimulation as Wing’s glossa thrust into him, through the clenching ring of mesh.  He squeezed around it, feeling another gush of lubricants seep out of him and into Wing’s mouth.  The sound of the flier sucking and swallowing made the arousal twisting in his tanks tighten into something almost painful.  He needed more.  Another rock forward bumped Drift’s exterior node against Wing’s nasal ridge, and he couldn’t help the breathless little cry that escaped his lips at the jolt of pleasure it gave him.  He pressed forward more, grinding his node against Wing’s nose, panting and moaning as the pleasure mounted.  Wing’s tongue was slick and insistent as it slid and licked inside him.  He was so close.

“Wing, Wing, oh frag,” Drift moaned, bracing himself against the wall with both hands now.  His mouth hung open, panting as the heat from his array spread through his frame too fast for his cooling systems to keep up with.

Wing tilted his face up, rubbing the tip of his nose purposefully against the slippery exterior node.  Drift keened as he felt the nasal ridge sliding through the wet folds of his valve, the ghost of Wing’s breath inside him.

“I’m—ngh, Wiiiing!” Drift cried, digging his fingers into the wall as he overloaded, crushing his panel against the flier’s face, vents opening and closing rhythmically as energy crackled through his systems.  He moaned brokenly, forehead pressed against the wall as he slid his valve up and down Wing’s chin, riding out the aftershocks of pleasure.  He could still feel Wing’s glossa busy between his legs, cleaning up the mess of fluids he’d released when he overloaded.  The junction of his thighs was soaked.  He let the flier continue, trembling faintly, until Wing patted at the sides of his thighs and Drift lifted himself up and scooted back again, bracing his hands against Wing’s chest.

The sight of Wing was almost enough to bring Drift back to arousal again.  His entire face below the optic line was drenched in pinkish fluids.  They pooled in the hollow of his throat and dripped down onto the berth below.  His eyes were bright and he looked up at Drift with such intensity that Drift had the strangest urge to look away, like Wing’s gaze was so bright it might burn him.

“Well, that was something,” Wing admitted, licking valve fluids from his lips and propping himself up on his elbows.

“Do you need me to—“ Drift started, ready to grind his aft back against Wing’s array and give him his third overload that morning.

“N-no, that won’t be necessary,” Wing confessed.  Drift blinked at him, making note of the slight flush that dusted his cheeks.  Drift glanced back, noticing the new puddle of lubricants between Wing’s legs.

“You came just from eating me out?” he asked, incredulous.

“…yes.”

“That’s pretty hot,” Drift said breathily, leaning down to kiss Wing, tasting his own fluids on the flier’s lips.  Wing relaxed under him, mouth opening and head tilting back to let Drift take control.

“Your enthusiasm is infectious.”

“You do strange things to me.  Things no one’s done in a long time.  Sometimes I hate you for it,” Drift confessed without malice, drawing back to study Wing’s reaction.  The flier’s expression didn’t change, but his optics dimmed faintly.

“Do you hate me now?”

“No,” said Drift, letting one of his legs slide back between Wing’s and draping himself over the knight’s chassis.  “Not right now.”

Wing said nothing, just let himself fall back against the berth.  He wrapped one arm around Drift’s frame, letting himself be drawn into the steady thrum of the speedster’s engines.

“I’ll leave one day,” Drift said, suddenly.  He hadn’t moved.

“I know.”

“You could come with me, if you wanted.”

“Would you want me to?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe.  I think so.”  Drift turned his face into the side of Wing’s neck, suffused in the smell of Drift’s valve fluids.  He licked at the cables, cleaning them gently.  When Wing didn’t respond, he paused. 

“Wing?”

“I can’t give you an answer, Drift,” the flier said, finally.  “I’ve been a knight for most of my life.  I’ve sworn oaths.  I have obligations to this place, and to these people.  Dai Atlas wouldn’t approve of me leaving.  He didn’t approve of me bringing you here, either.  That’s why he was so hard on me yesterday, harder than usual.  He tells me that I’m ruled by my emotions, even after all this time.  He thinks that it’s a weakness.”

“Is it?” Drift asked.  He’d always found power in emotion.  Anger had given him the strength to fight powers far greater than himself, hate had focused his convictions, and hope had kept him from giving in to the despair and anxieties he buried in the deepest parts of himself.

“I don’t think so,” Wing said softly.  “I think our emotions can tell us what’s right more truthfully than logic.  I’d like to think that they guide me, rather than control me.  I knew saving you was the right thing to do, and I think, when the time comes, my spark will tell me whether I should stay, or leave.”

“I hope it tells you the right thing,” Drift said.

“As do I.”

There was a long moment of silence, before Drift shifted restlessly.

“Did you want to get up now?  I have a feeling today is the day you finally get your aft handed to you,” Drift boasted, disliking the melancholy that had settled over the knight.

“Mmm, we’ll see about that.  In a little while.  Right now… would you stay?”

Wing looked up at him, his golden optics wide and vulnerable.  _Like a sparkling_ , thought Drift.  Wing was so strange.  A contradiction given form in light and steel.  Nothing he did or said made any sense to Drift, but he was starting to become accustomed to his senselessness.

“…sure.”

Wing smiled, and Drift felt his spark flutter strangely.  What was the matter with him, that he could engage in all manner of tactile pleasure and debauchery without it truly touching his spark, only for something as tiny as a smile to shatter all his defenses?

He laid his head down on Wing’s chest, feeling it rise and fall, watching as the light bled across Wing’s frame, his armor cutting shadows against the wall that shrank and grew like living things.  Yes, he could stay like this for a little while longer.


End file.
